


The Breathing Totem

by libertarianfurry



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libertarianfurry/pseuds/libertarianfurry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saint-Just makes a gesture of devotion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Breathing Totem

Maximilien Robespierre sat at his desk in the Duplay's attic. His little face was sallow and tinged with green, and his little hands, spotlighted by the beams of midday light from his window, clenched and unclenched on his desk. His little soul was in turmoil, precluding any productivity.

  
Then, there was a knock at the door. His shriveled tyrant's heart leapt in his chest.

  
"Come in!" he cried.

The door cracked, and Maurice Duplay appeared behind it.

  
"Maximilien? Citizen Saint-Just has returned from duty. He's here now."

  
It was exactly what the Sanguinary Dictator wanted to hear. He stood up almost unsteadily upon his absurd little legs and smiled, pushing his little glasses up onto his little brow.

  
"Well! Why hasn't he come up to greet me himself?"

  
"Ah, that's what I was going to say. He wants you down in the salon with the rest of us."

  
Oh, did that puzzle the terror's architect! As he descended the stair after Citizen Duplay his little mind prodded at that statement like a panther prodding at a worn-out cardboard box full of babies. Despite himself he couldn't keep his little heart from accelerating from a brisk two-step into an almost-mechanical drone.

  
What caused the Incorruptible's terrifying stoicism to falter? What force, or stimulus, could be powerful enough to move the heart of this frigid tyrant?

  
When Robespierre received his first letter from the young Saint-Just, his idealism had yet to be crushed by his realization that the common man was a savage bereft of any moral sense or sapience. Under the caress of that worshipful letter germinated the first seed of Robespierre's megalomania. The Tyrant-to-be continued to correspond with this young provincial man until the latter arrived in Paris, at which point they became close friends and allies. Saint-Just was the foundation upon which Robespierre built a delirious image: the image of himself as the savior of all man. That image would never crumble with the revolution's progress; rather, it would become more terrifying.

  
Robespierre was every bit as icy-hearted as he appeared- otherwise, how could he have mercilessly slaughtered over ten million women and children? But there was one thing that he valued. And, if a soul may feel a given amount of love in his life- for his children, his wife, his parents, his friends, his country, his ideals, his fellow man, his stuffed animals, his favorite food, his 4chan board or boards of choice, & c. & c. &c.- Robespierre felt all of his love for this single thing. This was his worshipper and henchman, who brought him from manhood into godhood: Saint-Just.

  
In this last letter, Saint-Just had said that he had acquired an object that would culminate his worship of the great dictator. Through this object only, he said, could his immense love of Robespierre be expressed. The Sanguinary Dictator, for reasons which he could not verbalize, had expected- no, maybe not expected, but had hoped- that this powerful object, this expression of his follower's love, would be revealed to him in privacy. In- in intimacy. In the Duplay's salon, surrounded by family both adoptive and not- that was not the place for the consummation of such ardent and devoted worship.

  
So, the disappointed dictator arrived in the salon with the family's patriarch. There, seated in the center of the room on the floor, was Citizen Saint-Just. He was more than the rabid lamb had remembered. More beautiful, with marble skin and ringlets of golden-brown hair. More intense. The tyrant felt his little breath catch in his little throat.

  
"Hello, Citizen Robespierre. It is good to see you. As I said in my letter, I have with me the ultimate object of your worship."

  
"Citizen Saint-Just! My friend, I have surely missed you!" Robespierre moved to greet Saint-Just, his little arms extended.

  
"Be seated, Citizen Robespierre. What I have to show you has occupied my thoughts since I first acquired it. Forgive my rudeness, but if I must wait another minute to show you... Well! My heart may burst." The hale young man pounded his chest to emphasize the intensity of his excitement.

  
"I understand," said Robespierre, and obligingly did he trot back to the circle's perimeter and, just a little bit closer to the center than everyone else, place his little ass upon the floor.

  
Saint-Just opened the leather sack that was draped over his sensuous thigh and pulled out another smaller sack of incredibly soft, iridescent silk. "This," he murmured reverently, "is it. The Breathing Totem."

  
He upended this second sack into his hand. What landed in his palm was an object of such beauty and delicacy that the entire room emitted a reflexive gasp, all at once, as if from the same mouth.

  
The Breathing Totem was a perfect scale model of Maximilien Robespierre, just a few inches high. Its tiny limbs were formed with perfect proportions, its tiny trunk was packed with tiny organs. In its tiny porcelain skin were tiny wrinkles, all where Citizen Robespierre bore them, and beneath it lay tiny veins tracing tiny blue roads across its tiny, naked body. The only deviation from the original was its immense, fully erect phallus. The peen was over eight inches long. What's more- whether it was its lively curvature, the matted bush of hair at its base, or its deep burgundy color (so contrary to the rest of the Totem's eggshell skin)- something about it seemed to be alive, moreso than any of the Supreme Being's creations.

  
"Citizen Saint-Just-" Robespierre gasped. The ice-hearted tyrant's composure was all but gone. His little eyes shone; his little hands trembled. Little tears gathered in his little eyes. Inside his little mind, his little ego inflated exponentially. His little heart soared.

  
The Breathing Totem's micrometers-thick eyelids opened, revealing eyes so lustrous and full of wisdom they might have been formed from the same glass as keeps the velvet sky and its stars from earth. The Totem adopted an expression of perfect, serene tenderness as, before the Duplays, the Robespierres, Saint-Just, and the world, it made eye contact with its god.


End file.
